


Turn Left

by efthemia, obeama, seaaanemones, sopnu



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Epilepsy Warning, F/M, animated gif, pizza puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:16:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/efthemia/pseuds/efthemia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/obeama/pseuds/obeama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaaanemones/pseuds/seaaanemones, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sopnu/pseuds/sopnu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s dark in the small entrance hall of the apartment. He squints at the paper in his hand, turns it back and forth- 119, 611- and shrugs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Left

“Pizza delivery.”

She slowly looks him up and down, and notices his nervous fidget with no small feeling of amusement. “I didn’t order pizza.”

The boy’s hair is sticking out at odd angles beneath the company baseball cap, and he clearly hasn’t shaved in days. He tries to hide his face behind the pizza box. Rose just tries not to laugh.

“Really? Shit, you’re kidding. The address must be-” He fumbles in his pocket, presumably for a paper, and nearly drops the box. Rose reaches over to take it out of his hands, and notices him gulp.

“You brought pizza to the wrong address?” She asks skeptically. “This sounds like the intro to a shitty porno.”

“You would know,” he fires back, and grabs the pizza box back from her. “Bet it’s a scene straight out of one of your favorites. ‘Hot disheveled blond gets lost downtown and goes down somewhere el-’”

“Excuse me,” she interrupts, as he coughs and looks away. “But I can assure you that if I watched porn, I’d find something more imaginative than that.”

His ears go red. “Yeah, I’d love to stay and help you with that, but I’ve got deliveries to make-”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you-” she peers at his nametag. “Sebastian Fuego III. Is that your real name?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Fine, then call me Bella.” Rose winks and shuts the door.

\---

The second time he brings her pizza, he’s shaved and his hair is combed. He is the one smirking when she answers the door.

Rose looks away after a few seconds of eye contact, to her own disgust, and wonders if she can kick off the fuzzy slippers discreetly. “Hello again, Sebastian. Come here often?”

He shakes his head slowly. “I did it again, didn’t I? Sorry, Bells.”

“It’s Bella,” she says, and smiles sweetly. “You may need to invest in a GPS, Mr. Fuego. And I’m sure you’ve got to deliver that pizza to someone-”

“Well,” he drawls, “If you want this pizza, you can have it. Out of the goodness of my pure heart, you know.”

“Oh. That’s kind of you-”

“You still have to pay for it, though.”

Rose glares and hands him a crumpled ten-dollar bill. “Fine. Leave it here, then.”

“Catch you later,” he grins, and practically sashays off into the night.

When she opens the pizza box, there is a message written inside the lid in red ink:

these are my digits   
233 555 0153

(She doesn’t dial them. She does, however, call Domino’s and find out the time of his next shift.)

\---

After three weeks, six pizzas, and zero phone calls, Rose decides that the time for romantic advances has come. The time is right. The moon is in its lunar perigee, the jury is in, and she is mixing metaphors. He also has a very nice ass.

She catches his elbow as he moves to leave, and is rewarded with an eyebrow raise. “If you’d like to know,” she says, “My real name is Rose.”

He stares at her, very quietly, very seriously. “Guess I should tell you mine too.”

He pauses. She waits.

“It’s Sebastian-”

“Fuck you,” she says, and closes the door in his face.

She gives in and texts him later.

It’s my real name, you douche.

oh   
shit   
are you the pizza chick

I applaud your deduction.   
Now, please tell me your name, or I shall go mad.

you can call me romeo   
does that appeal to you rosaline

Romeo’s love for Rosaline was unrequited, not to mention short-lived.   
I take my Shakespeare seriously as tits.

rose is so fucking flowery   
im not buying it

What you are buying is dinner, for me. And not pizza.   
I think the grease is beginning to seep into my pores. The smell will never go away.   
O, will these hands never be clean?

a little water washes you of the deed

You know Macbeth?

hey did you think that just because i work at dominos im an idiot   
i bite my thumb at you   
see you at eight

He brings her two pizzas, and they are both revoltingly greasy. He eats nearly all of one. He still won’t tell her his real name.

“Sebastian” is an ass with a nice ass, and she is interested beyond belief.

\---

God, this is turning out like some shitty romance novel.

lalonde you literally are a shitty romance novel   
but im sure as hell not gonna fall in love with you

\---

His name is Dave - he eventually admits this to her - and the final time he brings her pizza, it’s undeniably on purpose.

“I haven’t seen you around in awhile,” she says, carefully keeping within the confines of her doorway.

“Yeah.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, not venturing over the doorstep. “You had like, papers to write, so.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Their last meeting had been the night before a deadline, and she had been rather vocal about it.

“Can I come in?”

“How forward of you. How can I know what your intentions are? I can assure you, you’re certainly not getting anywhere when you smell like you’ve been dipped in a vat of pepperoni.”

“Nah, that’s the pizza. Which I’m paying for.” He shoves the box towards her with a grin.

“When confronted with such obvious tactics to win my heart, how can I resist?”

Dave strolls into her kitchen like he owns the place. His hands are shaking. It’s very endearing.

Rose opens the pizza box, and the writing on the inside of the lid is rather hard to miss.

when a customer with cravings rings up dominos   
a pizza gets made, its godsent and it shows   
sweaty discs of pepperoni, sometimes together with ham   
got everyone sayin hot fuckin damn   
but theres more to it all than just that bit   
cus when i showed up on your doorstep i fell into a pit   
and it mightve been obvious but now ill admit   
girl i want a pizza you and now theres really nothing left to do   
but maybe get to know each other   
and no matter how cheesy dont think id ever get queezy thinking about anchovies   
with a side order of garlic bread   
long as i shared it with you   
so if you want thats something we could do   
thats why i gave you my number if you didnt get the clue

“Is this permanent marker?”

“Is that really the first thing you say?”

“It’s most likely toxic. I’m not sure I want to eat this. Couldn’t you have gone the creative route and spelled it out with mushrooms? Then again, perhaps it wouldn’t have fit.”

“Rose-”

“Maybe you’re just too verbose to fit your sentiments on such a measly surface. Do you require paper? Canvases? Perhaps the Sistine Chapel? Nothing is unreasonable when it comes to great art.”

The room is very, very silent when she stops talking. Dave stares at the toes of his shoes as if he might find an answer written there, and she can hear his breathing.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. He jumps a little, and stares at her.

She leans in to kiss his cheek, and hopes for a moment where everything suddenly makes perfect sense.

\---

They’ve assumed the traditional, predictable couple stance - Rose sits upright; Dave’s head lies in her lap, facing outwards. She flips the page of a thick novel, pale finger arcing up and over. Dave shifts towards her, pressing his nose into the fabric of her dress.

“Fine,” he says grumpily, words muffled, “I fell in love with you.”

“I told you so,” she says, and smiles.

\---

The years fly by; light pools in their hearts, the places they inhabit, the things they do. The doorbell rings. Rose answers it, expecting Dave; unexpectedly, he’s wearing his old Domino’s uniform, cardboard box of pizza in his outstretched hands. She hides a snicker behind her hand. “A callback to the beginning, hm? How nostalgic-” He says almost gruffly, “Take the box, Rose.”

A minute crease appears between her blond eyebrows. She starts narrating the scene, oblivious. “And Dave Strider, as a true advocate of the great American art of the fabled ‘Pizza-man pornography’, presents his romantic interest -”

She’s opened the box. The words die on her lips.

He’s smug, but a soft kind of love wells up through the cracks. The words are easy and blithe. “And he opens his mouth, in a surprising as shit plot twist, and says -”

“Rose Lalonde, will you marry me?” It’s Rose who says this last phrase, moving forward to lean against the door frame. “And the righteous epitome of class sophist says -”

“Hell fuckin’ yes.”

\---

\---

“Pizza delivery.”

Dave hands the pizza to the man in apartment 611, takes his tip, and goes home.

(The sound of rain hitting the window wakes him in the early morning, and something feels strange, wrong- he ignores it

but he can’t fall back asleep.)

\---

Dirk.   
Teach me how to rap.

Well, that just came out of fucking nowhere.   
Violin not enough for you? You’re already in college, Lalonde. You don’t need to keep cruising for scholarships.

The violin bores me, Dirk.   
Eng Lit bores me. My classes bore me. I have a paper due tomorrow, and I don’t even care.   
Teach me to rap, or I will drive pencils into my eye sockets.

Much as I’ll hate to see the demise of your pretty lil' eyes, I’ve got to regrettably inform you that rap isn’t a thing you can teach.   
It’s an art. A philosophy. A way of life.   
Either you have it, or you don’t.

Dirk Strider is twenty, with gelled hair and a porn website and a GPA higher than most people think possible. The last bit is one of the few things he and Rose have in common.

It’s weird that you ask that, though.

Why is that?

There’s this one dude at the music store. Asked me the other day if I knew where he could find a violin teacher.   
I guess everyone’s taking up new hobbies lately.

Who is he?   
Anyone I know?   
He sounds rather fascinating.

Nah, you wouldn’t like him.   
He’s not your type, Rose.

\---

daaave   
dave   
dvae   
daaaaaaaaave

yeah sup

i dont know if this is my fifth martini   
or my sixth   
plz come asstist   
*assist

“Are you skipping work?” Roxy asks, dangling a breadstick above her mouth and biting off strings of molten cheese. “You sweetie.”

“If anyone asks,” he says, “there’s a huge fucking traffic jam around the corner.”

“God, you’re the best.” She blows him a kiss. “So how’s it hangin, huh? How’s life for you?”

“Okay.” He shrugs. “Delivering shit, you know. When a customer with cravings rings up dominos, a pizza gets made, its god-sent and it shows. Little discs of pepperoni, got everyone saying... ‘that thing a sham?’ Nah, scratch that... Hot damn? Cram in some ham... Cheese crust is, uh, a must-”

Roxy giggles. “If that’s the best you can do, you are neeever getting any ladies.”

She spots the look on his face and looks instantly dismayed. “No, that’s not what I meant. Dave, you can be like, the womanizer of pizza delivery if you want. Wanna make out? It’ll totally cheer you up.”

“Hey, come on, that’d be like kissing my sister.”

“Whatever," she laughs. "Can't hurt to try, right?"

\---

He sucks so bad at violin. He plays until his fingers get creased and pink, until his wrists hurt, until his ears ring with the high screeches of the instrument.

“Perhaps listening to some advanced musicians might help you,” his teacher suggests kindly. “One of my other students is performing in a small concert soon. It would be simple to provide you with a ticket.”

“What day?” he asks, stabbing the ground with his bow.

“Please don’t do that. It’s this Thursday, six thirty.”

“Thanks, Doc, but I’ve got to work then,” Dave mutters. “Maybe next time.”

\---

Her dress is long and black and velvety - elegant, but it provides little resistance to the seeping cold of the concert hall steps. Her shoes, tossed aside, are probably getting grass stains. She massages her forehead and doesn’t cry.

“Headache?” Dirk asks, perched on the railing like an overgrown bird.

“It feels more like my brain is currently staging a mutiny against my ever oppressive skull,” she replies, “but yes, you could say that.”

He stares at her, expressionless. “Too bad. I was looking forward to seeing you outclass everyone else there.”

She laughs quietly, cuts herself off. “I’m so fucking tired, Dirk. I think if I go back in there, I will either perform beautifully or break down into hysterical sobs onstage.” She shrugs. “Honestly, I could care less.”

Dirk finally smiles, a small twitch of the side of his mouth. He stands, tosses his car keys in the air, and catches them neatly behind his back. “Get in the car, Lalonde. Let’s blow this joint.”  
\---

“Do you ever feel like you’re missing something terribly important?” she asks, as she rolls down the window and breathes in the freezing air rushing by.

“All the time,” he says, not missing a beat.

\---

Her black kitten ruins two couches, a leather armchair, three binders of notes, and vomits on her most expensive pair of shoes. Rose loves him, but the damage is extensive and just cannot continue. She pleads with the local shelter: give him to a good home. At the last second, she adds ‘and if you can’t, bring him back to me’. They nod and tell her ‘yes’, and she desperately reigns in her tear ducts. Traitorous bastards.

‘He’s been adopted’, they inform her three days later. A good owner, they tell her exasperatedly as she pesters them for information. ‘He was blond and wore sunglasses; the cat left clinging to the front of his shirt’. The dial tone sounds, Rose lowers the phone, heart lighter, and moves on with her life.

\---

Dave finds himself wandering to used bookstores, running fingertips across spines of obscure authors (and wondering how many of them kicked the bucket from a bad case of douchebaggery pretension) and thoughtfully inhaling the scent of musty pages before violently sneezing, eyes watering. Used book stores- more like dust mite breeding grounds.

His sneeze is still reverberating through the air when the chime sounds, the door with the peeling paint is wrenched open, and a boot heel disappears into the bright sunshine. The door slams shut, still in its finality, and Dave Strider feels a strange tug in his gut. He ignores it (but he still ends up buying three books, all of which, from what he can tell, end tragically).

\---

Fast forward ten years, and Rose Lalonde is married to a faceless, nameless man who fills at least a pinch of the cavity where her heart should be. They share beige and lukewarm days, casual walks downtown, good literature recommendations. Books and years stack up; sadness collects in soft downy piles that catch her step and cause her to falter.

They walk arm in arm down an empty alley, when a blond in shades comes tearing down in the opposite direction. He tilts his head when he catches sight of Rose, then straightens it when he sees her husband.

He slows to a walk, inclines his head slightly, then shoves his hands deep down into his pockets. They stare at each other, two strangers looking on from different lives. She can see his Adam’s apple bobbing; her throat is suddenly dry. Once she moves past him, he resumes his pace and sprints off.

She goes right, and he goes left. She never sees him again. 

**Author's Note:**

> writing: [efthemia](http://efthemia.tumblr.com/), [cloudling](http://cumulae.tumblr.com/)
> 
> first illustration: [psonu](http://psonu.tumblr.com/)
> 
> second illustration: [lovelytoken](http://lovelytoken.tumblr.com/)
> 
> third illustration: lines by [obeama](http://gikerot.tumblr.com/), colors by [psonu](http://psonu.tumblr.com/)


End file.
